


Pale Imitation

by GodofWorms



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Adoptive Siblings, Angst and Tragedy, Coming of Age, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Foster Siblings, Guardian-Ward Relationship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Jealousy, Pseudo-Incest, Suicidal Ideation, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-07
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:00:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GodofWorms/pseuds/GodofWorms
Summary: A tragic family accident leaves Sansa under the care of her adopted brother Jon.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I gave myself a challenge to write something far out of my comfort zone, so here it is.
> 
> Song mood - Amen by Amber Run

_~ Is there a Heaven? You'd know now you've been. ~_

* * *

Sansa had never spent so much time thinking. It was all she seemed to do anymore. She thought about mindless things most of the time, the same line of song lyric repeating over and over in her head like a broken record. She wasn't even really paying attention, just anything to keep her thoughts moving. As long as she was awake, she had to be thinking, because as long as she was thinking, she was being distracted. That was a necessity at the moment. But it was also exhausting. Or maybe that was just life. Being alive was exhausting.

The heart rate monitor beeped steadily behind her, the ventilator compressing in and out delivering breaths while she sat on the hard tan couch looking out the window, facing away from him. She was up at ridiculous hours, always tired, eyes in constant pain from the lack of rest. It had been a little over two weeks now since the accident, and the longest stretch of time she'd slept had been four hours. Her sleeps were full of nightmares now. Or reality, she supposed. It was reality she dreamed of, not some nightmare she could escape from.

That thought brought on a rush of panic, so Sansa straightened, working to force her mind to blank as she took deep breaths in, deep breaths out. She kept her eyes wide open, watching the colourful horizon as the sun rose. She thought of nothing then, nothing but breathing, trying to get her own stuttering heart to match that of the monitor behind her. It was a lifeline, that monitor. It was the only thing supporting her now, the indisputable knowledge of Jon's existence, of her not yet being alone. He wasn't really her brother, not blood at all, but she was raised with him, and he was family. Even if they'd never been very close, he was all she had left.

His body was still very broken. Healing now, but broken. And still comatose. Every time the doctor came in, she had to assure Sansa that they expected him to wake any day now. She'd been saying that for the past three days, and Sansa really just wanted her to stop. It was worsening her anxiety, forcing her into a state of constant terror. If he was supposed to wake up 'any day now', then why wasn't he? Was something wrong? Was the doctor just placating her? Was she going to tell Sansa they had to pull life support? Because Sansa couldn't ... she couldn't ... she wouldn't survive that. She needed him to wake up.

Days passed and things remained much the same. Jon's broken leg and arm remained in tight casts, his head bandaged, his ribs, too. The horrible bruising he'd suffered all over was going down. She couldn't see anywhere below his neck, but his face had been banged up and swollen with two ghastly black eyes, bruising so dark purple that it really did look black, but that was significantly better now. She talked to him a lot because the doctor said that was good for patients in comas. He never gave any sort of response, not even a twitch of a finger, though Sansa watched diligently for it.

One night, she even managed to sleep a full ten hours without realizing it. She'd woken having no idea that any time had passed, let alone ten hours. It was a shock, to say the least. Jon was still unconscious. She was nowhere near refreshed after that, but she did feel far less crazed. It was a blessing her school had given her time off while Jon recovered, because she wouldn't be able to think straight enough at the moment to do any work. But after Jon was out of the hospital, she'd have a lot of catching up to do.

It was during the third week that things changed. Sansa's elbow was on the windowsill, her head resting in her hand while she stared blankly at the rising sun, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange. It was always so amazing to her, the sunrise. The sky created such beautiful colours.

There was a quiet, hoarse moan behind her, some garbled word.

Sansa straightened sharply, but didn't turn. She was afraid she was hearing things, hallucinating as a result of not sleeping. Her hands were lightly trembling, her heart all at once pounding, heat flooding her chest and neck and face.

The noise came again, sounding just slightly like her name.

She turned, rapidly blinking away the tears in her eyes. Jon's eyes were on her, the left one with light bruising beneath it, the ventilator tube stuffed down his throat and muffling his voice. Sansa pushed herself to a slow stand, legs trembling so hard she was having a hard time not collapsing. Jon's hand closest to her twitched, reaching for her, and Sansa gasped in a shaky breath, running to the door to lean out of it and scream for a nurse.

* * *

Jon was doing well. He'd suffered head trauma and a collapsed lung, as well as a broken left leg, right arm, ribs, and clavicle. He'd had a few surgeries to fix everything, which had been really hard on his body and forced him to remain in the ICU for a longer time than initially expected, but he'd recovered. All his broken bones were close to healed except for his leg, which had been snapped clean in two and would take months of recovery. The doctor came by to ask him questions, to see how much he remembered - everything, he'd said - to see how he was feeling, and to take his vitals. He was healing. He was out of the woods. All Sansa really wanted now was to get them both out of the hospital. She didn't want to go home, but she could stay at his house for a few months maybe. She didn't think he would say no if she asked, considering everything.

It was only after the doctor finished questioning Jon that he asked a question of his own.

"How's my family?"

It was horrible, what came after. She was sure it would haunt her for years, the way he looked when the doctor told him what happened. She didn't know if it was possible to die from sadness, but by the way Jon reacted, she thought it might be.

She'd had the opportunity to see everyone in the hospital before they died, all but her father and Rickon, who'd both died on impact. But she got to see her mother and Arya in the ICU; she got to see Bran and Robb. Robb had even gained consciousness for a few hours before he'd passed away. She'd taken a video of him, had spoken with him, had held his hand and felt him squeeze hers. She'd felt the warmth of his skin, the evidence of his life. She'd been able to see them alive, had been able to say goodbye, even if they weren't conscious for it. They'd died on the same day within hours of one another, but she didn't lose them all at once, all in the same breath.

Jon did.

When the doctor delivered the news, Sansa was facing the window with her arms crossed, afraid to look at him. But she heard him crying, heard his stricken, "Oh, God," heard the rapid increase of his heart rate on the monitor. His sobbing was disrupting his broken ribs, so the doctor called for sedation, not enough to make him unconscious, but enough to send him into a stupor. After a few minutes, he just stared numbly at the ceiling. It was difficult to watch. It tightened Sansa's stomach, made her want to puke.

Hours later, she was sitting by his side, his hand held in hers while he slept. She was so tired, but she was afraid to sleep. Every time she started to drift off, she'd jolt awake again, terrified that if she closed her eyes and gave in to her exhaustion, she'd wake to Jon being dead, too. She had her fingers wrapped around his wrist in such a way that she could feel every one of his pulses, just a beat before the heart monitor picked them up. She had to make sure.

When he came out of the coma, it was the first time Sansa felt anything substantial since the accident. She was relieved at first, immensely so, but as soon as that pushed her to emotional overwhelm, her mind latched on to reminding her that everyone in her family was dead. She wasn't sure if she was feeling happiness or desolation, so she tamped it down as quickly and forcibly as she could. She'd rather feel nothing ... better nothing than something she wouldn't be able to overcome.

* * *

Once he was awake, Jon's friends came to visit him nearly everyday. Sansa always left the room when they did, even though Jon told her she could stay. She wasn't that close to him, knew very little about him, so spending time with just him alone bordered on uncomfortable, never mind being around his friends and his ex-girlfriend. Occasionally, Sansa would come back to the room after strolling through the hospital grounds, assuming everyone was gone already, only to see Jon's ex still there, attention solely focused on him. Sansa didn't know why they broke up, seeing as it was clear Ygritte still cared so much about him. Sansa had heard she was the one to break things off, but maybe she'd been given false information. She couldn't really tell what Jon thought about Ygritte anymore, but he never kicked her out, so that must have stood for something.

He was doing a lot better by the fourth week. His bruising was gone nearly everywhere except for his abdomen, which she saw was dotted with yellows and pale purples along his ribs when the doctor removed the bandaging. He could eat on his own now, though Sansa fed him anyway. He was more solemn than normal, morose and quiet, but that was fine with her. He was alive and whole and they'd be going home soon. Which Sansa still hadn't spoken to him about.

She brought it up while maneuvering his still-healing arm in the gentle way she'd seen done by his physiotherapist.

"There's something I've been meaning to talk to you about, about what happens when you're out of the hospital."

Her voice was quiet, hoarse as though she'd been using it a lot, though she hadn't been.

"Okay," he said, eyes on their hands as she lightly bent his wrist, watching his face for any sign of discomfort. "What is it?"

"Well ... you're going to need some help while your leg recovers, and since I don't really want to be at home by myself, I was wondering if I might be able to stay with you for a while."

She was still watching his face, so their eyes locked very suddenly when Jon lifted his head, mild confusion clear in his expression. Sansa paused for a moment, taken-aback. They normally didn't really look at each other very much.

"I'd assumed you would be moving in with me permanently," he said, voice stable.

Sansa blinked. "Oh. Really?"

Jon frowned. "Well, you're seventeen. You're still in high school. You need a guardian."

"Oh, of course," she mumbled, looking down at their hands and continuing her ministrations, feeling stupid. "Makes sense. Well ... thanks, then."

It was probably a weird thing to say, but she _was_ thankful, so she might as well express it. They didn't speak for a while after that, which was relatively normal for them, but Sansa felt awkward about it now. She'd only just started her last year of school three months ago, which meant she'd be living with Jon for at least seven months. She didn't know how she was supposed to manage school and being his caretaker and finding some source of income all at once. Jon's leg snapped clean in half, so it would take another two to five months to heal, which meant he wouldn't be working at his construction job in that time.

And the hospital bills, God. The bills would be through the roof.

Sansa sighed heavily, and Jon noticed.

"What's wrong?" he asked quietly.

She was still mindlessly bending his arm around.

"I'm just thinking about finances," she said, not looking at his face. "I know Mom and Dad had some money put away, but..." she trailed off, swallowing. "You were in the ICU for two weeks on a ventilator and they did multiple surgeries. It's going to be costly."

Jon nodded, but didn't say anything.

"And I have to meet with the mortuary person to discuss what to do about the bodies--"

She cut herself off, abruptly releasing Jon's hand and falling back in her chair, crossing her arms. She blinked rapidly, clenching her jaw so hard it hurt, staring resolutely at the wall opposite her.

"We should probably do cremations," Jon said softly after a moment.

She looked at him without moving her head, meeting his eye, waiting for him to continue.

"I don't think I want a service," he said. "Do you?"

She already knew she didn't, so she shook her head. She just wanted everything to be over.

Jon nodded. "I'd rather just have their ashes and no funeral. I don't know that I'm up for anything like that. And it's cheapest," he added, almost as an afterthought, though Sansa knew it was likely the main reason.

After a long moment, she sighed and nodded, too, before excusing herself to get a coffee for her and a green tea for him. He didn't drink coffee. After knowing him for fifteen years, she'd only learned that last week.

* * *

While he healed, Sansa sat by his bedside, holding his hand in both of hers and stroking his skin. Touching wasn't a new development, but whenever Sansa thought about it, she found it odd that she was more comfortable touching him than she was meeting his eye. But she didn't say anything about it because Jon never stopped her. He even seemed to enjoy it himself. It was probably the same for both of them, proof of family, evidence of connection. Sansa wouldn't give that up unless he made her.

When his friends - or occasionally just Ygritte - came in, Sansa left them to do the caretaking. She was jealous, irrationally so, at these people taking up his time. She and Jon had started talking more after discussing cremating their family, growing closer, and Sansa was becoming increasingly possessive. She didn't want him to rely on anyone else, and Ygritte was the biggest threat.

It was clear she wanted to get back together with him, though Sansa didn't know if she'd mentioned it to him yet or not. But Sansa knew how it was when people were in relationships - they devoted the vast majority of their extra energy and time to their partner. She didn't want to share him. He was  _her_ family, and she was paranoid that Ygritte was trying to steal him. If she'd broken up with him, then she should just be broken up with him, not come running back acting like she cared when she clearly hadn't liked him that much  _before_ he'd almost died.

When they were alone, though, it was lots better. Sansa  _felt_ lots better. The beeping of his heart rate monitor tremendously eased her anxiety, and she missed it when she was out of the room. As long as it continued to beep, he was still alive.

Finally, at the beginning of December, Jon was discharged. The doctor came in to speak to them about home care and how to assist the healing process, and Sansa ... dissociated, though she didn't realize that at the time. She was thinking that they would be home shortly, and anxiety was bubbling up despite how hard she tried to force it back. She was focused on her arms crossed over her chest, and they suddenly didn't look like her arms, and they looked so far away, and she was losing her mind.

She hastily excused herself, saying she would bring the car around, and left as calmly as she could, pulling in deep breaths and trying to focus on that. She didn't recall much of the trip to her car until she was opening the door and collapsing inside. Her heart was pounding, her legs wobbly, her hands and feet unnaturally cold, and Sansa had no idea what was happening. She was scared to go home, to go back to the real world, despite that she'd focused on little else for the past two weeks. But now ... it was too much.

Sansa grabbed the hem of her shirt, bunched it as tightly against her mouth as she could, and screamed into it. She did it again, and again, and again, until she realized it was making her lightheaded, and then she stopped. Her hands were trembling when she started the car and put it into reverse, driving to the entrance. She was taking deep breaths in through her nose, forcing herself to focus, forcing herself to calm down.

Her heart was still hammering in her chest by the time she pulled up, but she'd already deduced at that point that she wasn't dying, she was probably just having a panic attack. It was very difficult to convince herself of that until she saw Jon already being strolled out of the hospital in a wheelchair by a nurse in murky green scrubs, crutches balanced across the arm rests. Jon was the one who really needed help. Her stupid little emotional outburst didn't matter. She didn't matter, because Jon had almost died, but by some miracle, he hadn't, and she _needed_ to remember that. She had Jon. She didn't have the others, but she still had him.

Jon seemed to notice something was off with her, but he didn't mention it until they were alone and Sansa was helping him get comfortable in the passenger seat.

"What's on your mind?" he asked gently.

She stilled where she was leaning over him, doing up his seat belt, and met his eyes. He hadn't asked if something was wrong, if everything was okay, if she was okay. He knew she wasn't. She opened her mouth to tell him the truth, to tell him she was overwhelmed, that she was afraid for things to go back to normal, that a part of her didn't want anything to go back to normal because she felt like that meant she was moving on from her family ... that she was afraid to accept that she _had_ to move on, that they weren't ever coming back.

But Jon's broken arm nudged her when he bent his head to better meet her eyes, encouraging her, and Sansa didn't say any of that. He was dealing with worse than she was. He was actually  _in_ the accident. He'd experienced it all. She hadn't even been there. She'd been at her best friend, Jeyne's house, probably laughing about something inconsequential and idiotic and stupid, painting her nails while her entire family skidded along black ice and rolled violently down a hill. She'd almost come along for the trip. She should have been there. She should have died with them.

"I just know there's going to be a lot to deal with," she said, buckling Jon in and pulling out to put his crutches in the back. "I'm not looking forward to it."

She closed his door, and then the back, and then walked around the front to the driver's side. It wasn't until she was driving off, pulling out of the hospital parking lot onto the road, that Jon spoke.

"You won't have to deal with it alone," he said, reaching out and gently rubbing her arm before dropping his hand.

But she already had. She'd had to sign off on organ donations, she'd had to speak to a lawyer about her parents' wills, she'd had to take on responsibilities that a seventeen year old shouldn't shoulder. Worse, she wanted to blame someone for it, but she couldn't because it was no one's fault except nature for creating Winter, or God for taking her family away from her, or maybe even herself for not going with them. She could have been with them at the end, she could have had her final moments with them, she could have died with them!

It would have been so simple to follow them to the grave now, to give up on everything, but she didn't want to force Jon to be the last of their family. She didn't want him to kill himself, either.

So she had to hold it together. If she didn't, she would lose it, and she was terrified of what would happen if she did.

So she said, "Thank you, Jon," giving him a tiny smile, and she pretended that everything was going to get better. Everyone said it would, so it must.

* * *

Jon lived on the third floor of his four-floor apartment building. They took the elevator up and Jon let them in. It was a moderately-sized apartment that smelled a little off with some dirty dishes stacked in the sink and beer bottles strewn about the counter. Aside from that it was relatively tidy.

It was an open-concept apartment, the kitchen directly to the left and the living room sunken a few feet in front of it. While Jon closed and locked the door, Sansa went to the far left to open up all the windows as wide as they could go, letting in a draft. She turned back around to see Jon leaning on one crutch, watching her.

Pushing her sleeves up her elbows, she made her way over to him.

"Why don't you just relax for a bit while I clean up?" she said, trying to help him into the room.

He'd argued for a moment, stupidly, as though he could be of any help all banged up. He relented shortly after, though, and let Sansa help him to the couch. She turned the TV on for him and set the remote at his left side on the couch before going to the kitchen area.

She started on the dishes, rinsing mold off before opening the dishwasher. But Jon quickly told her it was broken, so she washed them by hand instead. In his fridge, everything was in a state of rot, which she'd known it would be. Jon directed her around the apartment to find his recycling and then his garbage. She threw out the contents of the fridge, put away the bottles, and then took both the garbage and the recycling out before exploring the apartment a little more. She'd never been there before. It didn't take her long to realize it was a one bedroom apartment, which she should have known, considering he lived alone. But she'd somehow assumed that when he'd said she was to move in with him that he had a spare room.

But that didn't matter. Sansa could just take the couch, or ... buy a blow-up mattress or something.

A short time later, Ygritte and Jon's best friend, Sam came over.

Sansa dearly hoped visitors wouldn't be a common occurrence, but then she felt guilty for being so selfish. He'd probably really benefit from them. But she didn't, so she took her car keys and cell phone from the island and her purse from the hook by the door.

"You're leaving?" Jon asked suddenly.

Sansa turned to find all three of them in the living area, watching her.

"I'm going to get some groceries," she said quietly, not waiting for his response before leaving.

Her parents had no debt, and as the only remaining children, she and Jon inherited all their assets. There wasn't a lot of money put away, but it was a lot better than nothing. They'd have to figure out costs for everything, but right then, Sansa just wanted to buy some food. There was a grocery store very close to Jon's place, barely five minutes away in an outskirting area. Jon lived in the deep South of the city, nearly at the edge, in a fairly wealthy community. It would be a long drive to school every morning, but Sansa felt she quite liked the location. It wasn't deserted by any means, but it wasn't stifling, either. It was nice.

She was in a bit of a daze shopping for groceries, feeling as though she suddenly didn't know what kinds of foods she ate. Her mother had normally done most of the cooking, and she hadn't been eating much in the hospital. She'd buy a cinnamon bun or a bag of chips every so often when she was feeling particularly peaky, but she stuck to coffee otherwise. She wasn't very hungry.

And then she had an odd moment where she realized she _really_ didn't know what sorts of things Jon ate. She pulled out her phone to text him.

 

_anything in particular u want from the store? dunno what u like_

 

He texted back near immediately.

 

**Not picky. Whatever you want**

 

Sansa was disappointed he didn't give her anything better to work with it, but she just started yanking whatever into her basket and absently hoping he would like it. She didn't spend too long there, finding herself growing anxious the longer she was away from him. So she quickly made her purchase, which was an odd assortment of vegetables and snacks mostly, and then she made a quick stop at Wal-Mart to get a blow-up mattress, some pillows, and a blanket. She'd meant to buy only that, but then she hesitated, realizing all her clothes were at home and she'd have to actually enter the house to get them. So she bought some generic shirts and cotton pants that she hoped fit and threw them in her cart. She'd go home eventually, but she didn't want to deal with that right then. She just wanted to be back at Jon's

She hadn't been gone for very long, maybe half an hour, so she wasn't surprised that Sam and Ygritte were still there. Sansa hadn't told her own friends that she was out of the hospital, mostly because she didn't really want to be around anyone. Except for Jon. She also wished his guests would leave, but she wasn't rude enough to kick them out of  _his_ apartment. So she just unpacked the groceries and ignored their conversation as best as she could.

It was mid-afternoon, and with nothing much else to do, Sansa stopped busying herself. She leaned lightly against the kitchen counter with crossed arms, looking at Jon and his friends while still tuning out their conversation. He wasn't really participating. There was a dim sort of expression on his face that jolted Sansa's heart. She abruptly pushed away from the counter, squeezing her eyes shut a moment. She wouldn't cry. That didn't help anything, especially not in front of these people. She was not going to lose it.

"I'm gonna wash some things," she blurted, interrupting Ygritte, who looked at her, surprised. Sansa was watching Jon, though. "You want me to get your bedding?"

She only asked because she didn't have anything else to wash. She just wanted to be occupied, however briefly.

Jon's lips parted. "Uh - yeah, that'd be great. Thank you, Sansa."

* * *

By the time evening rolled around, Sansa was in a state of irritation by her entire afternoon having been spent with Jon's friends, who had taken up all his time and her space. They'd even stayed for supper, which Sansa had only intending making for herself and Jon. Though she didn't eat much of it. It was basic, stir-fried vegetables with some microwave packet rice that she'd bought with her parents' money, which was something she didn't want to spend on anyone but herself and Jon. She knew she was being ridiculous. She also didn't care.

So that night, when Jon tried to convince Sansa to take the bed despite the state of him, her patience had snapped, and so had she.

"Do you have any idea how stupid that is to offer?" she asked sharply, harshly shaking out her blanket while the automatic pump inflated the air mattress. "Your body is broken and you want to sleep on an air mattress?"

Jon just stared at her, lips parted. His lack of anger surprised her, though it shouldn't. He'd always been so kind ... so irritatingly kind.

But she was being nasty, and she knew he didn't deserve it.

Her shoulders slumped on her sigh and she dropped her blanket on the mattress. On the way over to him, she picked up one of his crutches, which was leaning against the couch where he stood.

"Here," she said, handing it to him and finding it difficult to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry. I know you're just trying to be nice. I'm just stressed out. But it makes most sense for you to sleep in your own bed, okay? Please?"

He didn't take any more coaxing than that, merely nodding.

In the bathroom, Sansa changed into the softest clothes she'd gotten that day, a pale brown shirt with a chest pocket. She didn't wear any pants, sleeping in just her panties. She brushed her teeth with her finger and didn't bother with her hair. It was scraggly and gross-looking, having received minimal washing for the past month. She probably should have had a shower before going to sleep, but she really just didn't care. She wanted the day to be over.

Jon left his bedroom door open when they went to bed, a mild comfort to Sansa, who felt less alone because of it. The air mattress was relatively uncomfortable, but Sansa was sure she'd get used to it. She might have to get an eye mask, though. Lights from the streetlamps trickled in through his blinds, streaming directly over her eye unless she had her head just so. Instead of getting up and moving the air mattress, she scooted it along the ground with jerky bodily movements, the material scraping over the faux-wood flooring. She saw Jon lift his head on his pillow, and she gave a last, hard jerk, sliding out of range of the streams of light.

"Sorry," she mumbled, flipping onto her side facing him and the blinds.

Jon lied back down, face turned toward her.

"It's okay," he murmured.

Sansa kept her eyes open for as long as she could, looking at him even though she couldn't make out any of his features. She couldn't tell if he was doing the same, but by the time she finally gave into her exhaustion and passed out, he was still lying facing her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this wasn't dragging. Particularly the second half seems to be because apparently I don't know when to end chapters *side eye @ myself* but I'm also extremely tired rn and wanted to get this out before bed. But hopefully it's okay. I don't know if there will be any interest in this story, but I really wanted to write it, so here we are :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wtf SO sorry this took so long. My life stalled my energy. Speedy updates from now on, though! And if you've stuck around, thank you a bunch!! xx

_~  Is there a God up there? If so, where does He hide? 'Cause the devil is raging inside my mind. ~_

* * *

After three days at Jon's place - 'home' now - Sansa realized she was developing an unhealthy obsession with the sound of his voice. He was always on the phone with his work, sometimes getting calls while she was helping him with physiotherapy - as she was currently - and all she wanted to do was listen. The conversation was usually boring to her, but she liked to hear him.

She wasn't totally oblivious to his life, so she'd known he was the foreman of the carpentry company where he worked. He was one of the younger workers there, a few months out from turning twenty-one, but he'd been at the same job since he was sixteen. He knew how to manage the operations better than anyone, and Sansa had always felt pride in that. Whenever she'd meet new people in the past and they would ask about her family, she'd never failed to mention Jon's work to them - "Wow, he's a foreman at twenty? That's very impressive!". Sansa had always thought that, too.

She could see it in him these days, his assertiveness. He had a natural affinity for taking control. He was composed on the phone, respectful, polite, but undeniably the one in charge. He could adopt a commanding voice when necessary, which Sansa was still getting used to. She'd always thought of him as her sweet adopted brother Jon, soft and quiet and docile. And he was, but not all the time. He could be near aggressive when need be. It was nice to see.

When Jon hung up the phone, Sansa was still working on his arm. He was set to have his cast off in a little over a week, but he'd mentioned that it felt quite strong already. He didn't strictly  _need_ help with it, but Sansa felt closer to him this way.

He leaned back against the couch with a sigh, dropping his phone on his lap, and let Sansa continue, idly watching her.

"Things not going well?" she asked.

Jon shook his head. "It's not that. I just wish I could be back."

Sansa didn't know what to say to that. She could offer no similar sentiments. She herself felt off-kilter, not wanting things to go back to normal, but not quite knowing what else to do.

"You go back to school this Monday, you said?" he asked.

She nodded, sighing herself. She'd have so much school work for the next couple of months.

"Your friends don't want to see you before then?" he asked.

Sansa looked up, pausing. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I'd have thought they'd come to check in on you."

"Oh," she muttered, swallowing, and continued on his arm. "I haven't told them to come here."

Jon was quiet a moment.

"I hope you don't think you need my permission," he said softly. "You're welcome to have them over."

"I actually haven't told them we're out of the hospital."

She wasn't looking at Jon, but she saw his surprised frown.

"Why not?"

She shrugged a shoulder, non-committal.

"I don't want anyone around, I guess."

She could see Jon watching her in her periphery, but she didn't look up, waiting for him to ask her 'why' again. He never did. Foolishly, Sansa was hurt when he fell silent without prying more. She wanted to talk to him about it, but felt too vulnerable bringing it up without his explicit prompting. Though she couldn't pin that on him. Even if they were closer now than ever before, they still weren't close. And even if they were, she couldn't expect him to guess what was on her mind, to know when she needed to speak about the things she was stubbornly withholding. She was being immature. But she still couldn't make herself talk about personal matters without feeling an inexplicable rise of embarrassment.

Sighing quietly, she returned her focus to the physio while the TV droned on softly in the background, a laugh track playing over the tense silence between them.

* * *

Mid-afternoon the next day - Friday - Jeyne Poole, Margaery Tyrell, and her grandmother Olenna all showed up at Jon's apartment while Sansa was alone, finishing wiping down the already clean counters. Jon had left a short time before, stating he needed fresh air and some alone time. Sansa had been hurt by it earlier, thinking he needed space from her. But when she answered the door, she knew he'd only said it as an excuse to let her have the apartment to herself for her friends' visit. Because there was no way this wasn't orchestrated by him.

She didn't even have time to process what was going on before Jeyne was sweeping her up in a hug, one arm around her shoulders, the other around her waist. Sansa exhaled and hugged her back. Margaery bear-hugged them after a moment while Olenna came into the apartment, hands full of food.

"What are you guys doing here?" Sansa asked.

"Checking up on our sweet Santan, of course," said Margaery.

Sansa gave the barest of laughs as she pulled back so she could go close the door.

When she turned back around, she saw Olenna's wizened face was open in understanding. She didn't ask Sansa how she was doing, she just came up with open arms and let Sansa crumple into them. There was something about the woman that made Sansa lose her composure. It was the first time she'd really properly cried - even if it was only for a few seconds - and she hated it, hated how out of control it made her feel.

"What's all this?" she asked to distract herself, quickly swiping at a stray tear, still in the embrace. Olenna had brought a wicker basket overfilled with an assortment of edibles, food and drink both.

"Dear Jon tells me you've lost your appetite," said Olenna, gently rocking her in the hug. "I thought all your favourite foods might help you find it again." She pulled back, holding Sansa's arms, and gave her a once over. "You are looking rather slim, love."

Sansa swallowed, uncomfortable.

"Well, thank you," she said, wanting to change the subject. "That was really nice of you."

Olenna smiled softly. "Loras would have come, but he had an interview today for the newspaper."

"Bloody nerd," Margaery said under her breath.

Olenna smacked her upside the head, making Margaery wince and cup her skull while Jeyne laughed softly.

"That's all right," Sansa said. "I'm sure I'll see him one of these days."

She'd thought she didn't want anyone around, but with them there, the people closest to her in this world aside from her family, she realized she couldn't have been more wrong. They stayed for a few hours, regaling Sansa with stories from school - Olenna occasionally delivering smarmy one-liners that sent all three girls into fits of laughter - but eventually, Sansa grew paranoid about Jon being out so long. He hadn't texted her, and though she liked having her friends over, having them there without him wasn't doing much to ease her anxiety. On top of that, Sansa was experiencing an uncomfortable tightening in her body of guilt, telling her she had no right to be this happy when her family was dead.

Observant as always, Margaery was the first to notice Sansa was getting tired out, and she suggested they all leave Sansa to her own devices. Before they did, though, Olenna pulled Sansa off to the side.

"I know it's not my place to talk about this, darling," she said, "but grief counselling would be beneficial for you. Any kind of counselling would be, after what you've gone through."

Sansa nodded, submitting. "I've just got a lot going on right now. But I'll think it over."

"Well, if you decide to go, and hopefully you do, let me know. There's a brilliant therapist I see who helped me through my own son's passing."

"Okay, I will. Thank you so much, Olenna. For everything."

"It's my pleasure, love," she said, smiling warmly, but her look quickly turned severe. "And now you need a serious talking to."

At Olenna's reproachful look, Sansa was immediately shamed, though she couldn't imagine what she'd done wrong.

"Yes?" she asked, tentative.

"Don't you go taking care of other people, do you hear? You just focus on you and what  _you_ need. That boy is trying to do right by you, so you just go ahead and let him."

"I don't know what you mean. I'm not taking care of anyone."

Olenna raised her eyebrows, lips pursed.

"Jon doesn't seem to think so."

Sansa frowned, blinking a few times. The only person she was taking care of was Jon --

"What,  _him?_ Of course I should take care of him, he's my--"

"Not him," Olenna said sternly. "He says you leave when his friends show up and you keep trying to do things to make them comfortable, and don't you try and deny it. He's not sure you want them around because he says you don't say anything about it."

Sansa dropped her eyes, shamed.

"I don't know how to talk to him," she said, voice quiet.

"The same way you talk to me," said Olenna. "The same way you talk to Margey and Jeyne. He's family, darling. He cares very deeply for you and your comfort."

"Well, then, he should just say all this to me himself," she muttered, picking at a loose string hanging from her shirt sleeve.

Olenna gave her a knowing smile. "It might be he's not quite sure how to talk to you, either. I told him to try, and now I'm telling you to try, too. You'll do it, yes?"

Sansa nodded, and Olenna gave her a soft smile, gently patting her cheek.

The three women left shortly after, her friends promising to see her on Monday.

"You take all the space you need, girlie," said Margaery, squeezing Sansa's upper arms before pulling her in for a hug. "We're not going anywhere."

Sansa often found reasons to be grateful for her friends, and this time was no exception. They were so understanding, so mindful of her needs, so thoughtful. It reminded her to count her blessings, including and most especially Jon.

She'd just called him, not five minutes after everyone left, when she heard his familiar ringtone out in the hall.

She rushed to open the door before he could, and found him standing there on his crutches, phone in hand and flustered eyes on hers. Sansa sighed, body finally relaxing now that she saw him there, and close, and safe.

They'd been physically affectionate in the hospital, always touching hands or arms or some measure of skin, but at the time, physical contact was something Sansa _needed_. She'd needed the anchor to reality, to life, to having someone around. But this was different. Now, she only ever touched him when she was doing physio on him. Initiating a hug felt too intimate, too awkward with the relationship they had, as though it would be something they needed to talk about afterward, discuss whether they were both okay with it.

But Sansa wanted to thank him, and Olenna's words from earlier encouraged her to do it despite the discomfort, so she stepped forward and slid her arms around his shoulders. She'd meant to be quick, to express her gratitude and pull back and leave, all before he could tense at the contact. But he didn't tense. His arm came around her middle at the exact same time, or maybe even a beat earlier, as though giving her a hug had been on his mind, too.

She was stunned enough by his easy reciprocation that it took her a moment to remember why they were holding each other in the first place.

"Thank you," she murmured into his shoulder, knowing she didn't need to mention for what.

Jon nuzzled a little closer in response.

"I'm glad they seem to have helped," he said, his hand running firmly down her spine. "Don't know how I'd get on your good side again if their visit turned out to be horrible."

Sansa let out a short burst of a laugh and pulled back, shy. Jon's hand lingered on her just a breath longer.

"You wouldn't have been on my bad side in any case," she promised, face heating at the admission.

Jon's expression changed, softening, and Sansa stepped aside to let him into his apartment.

* * *

For a while now, Sansa and Jon both knew how expensive the last month was with the hospital bills and the cremation and death services. $320,000 was a ludicrous number that they obviously couldn't afford. Their parents hadn't invested in life insurance before they died, and only had something like $30,000 put away. Jon wanted to sell the house; Sansa didn't. They barely spoke about it other than agreeing they had to clean it out, and while Sansa pretended to be okay with the idea of putting it on the market, she couldn't imagine it. It was her family's home. She was possessive of it ... she didn't want some strangers living there, corrupting the space.

But it would probably go for $700,000 or more. They had no other real options for paying off the bills. Sansa was desperate for something. She googled selling organs on the black market, but Jon caught her and snapped at her for being stupid. He was a little pushy about them going to clean the house, but he always gave Sansa longer when she asked. She just needed a week. Maybe two. Maybe. Hopefully.

She returned to school Monday morning with nothing more than a pencil. All her school work was at the other house, though she'd left most of her textbooks in her locker. Margaery and Jeyne met her at the doors when she texted them that she was feeling nervous about going back, worried that people might say things to her. And they did. Every teacher she had throughout the day pulled her aside to say how sorry they were for what happened, to ask her how she was doing, how Jon was doing. "I'm really good," she'd lied. "Jon is, too."

People kept their distance, a few looking up and down her body at the way she'd thinned out since they last saw her, her clothes now visibly hanging off her frail form. Only a few people commented on it, though ... her History and Maths teachers. It was relatively normal aside from that. She was allowed to work in the library instead of in her classroom since she was behind, which was a small mercy. It allowed her to text Jon throughout the day, as well, making sure he was okay on his own. He kept telling her not to worry. She kept failing at it.

But as the days wore on, she found herself entering into a routine. She disliked being away from Jon, but it was no longer horribly nerve-wracking. It was only  _mildly_ nerve-wracking. She could work with that. Only a few people were staring at her now in school, and everyone had stopped trying to tell her how sorry they were for what happened. Sansa thought they couldn't possibly know, couldn't possibly feel any amount of real empathy because even if they'd lost family, none of them were as alone as she was. She tried not to think about those things, though. Her schoolwork distracted her, taking care of Jon distracted her, and she could keep using her busyness as an excuse not to go home yet.

That Friday afternoon, Sansa took Jon to the hospital to have his arm cast removed and to check on how he was healing. When they got back home, Sansa noticed the plate of lemon cakes that sat mostly untouched on the counter, now sprouting green mold. Her stomach tightened in guilt as she threw them out, wishing Olenna didn't waste the time on her.

A few days later, Sansa developed a heart arrhythmia.

* * *

The tension between Jon and Sansa that she'd been determinedly avoiding came to a head the following Monday evening. Sansa had purposely come home later than normal to avoid Ygritte only to see that Ygritte was not only still there, but she was sitting beside Jon on the couch, bending his arm and wrist around while he politely told her he thought he was 'quite all right now'.

Sansa stared a bit longer than she'd meant to, her mind short-circuiting at the way Ygritte was touching him. She felt a swell of jealousy and turned away, depositing her backpack on one of the island stools. _She_ was supposed to do physio on Jon. She was always the one to do it. Fighting the embarrassing urge to cry, Sansa opened the fridge and stared hard into it, not really seeing anything. She wasn't hungry, was never hungry, but even less so right then. She wanted to tell Ygritte to get her hands off him, as though Sansa had the right. Stupidly, she felt betrayed by Jon.

What was going to happen to Sansa if they got back together? Was she going to become a burden to him then? Would he regret telling her she could live with him?

She closed the fridge a little too hard, turning around to wash her hands at the island sink. She kept her head down but glanced up, seeing Ygritte helping Jon to his feet.

"Thought you'd be home a lot sooner," said Jon, giving her a look with some kind of hidden meaning she wasn't interested in deciphering.

She shrugged a shoulder, saying nothing. She rinsed her hands, but squirted soap onto them again, vigorously rubbing it to suds.

Ygritte rubbed her elbow, briefly glancing at Sansa and then back to Jon.

"I thought I could stay for supper," she said, drawing Sansa's eyes to the pair of them. "Maybe stay over?"

The water was still running, but Sansa's hands had stilled, turning cold in the frigid stream. Jon turned his head a fraction toward Sansa, but didn't look at her.

"It's probably not the best time," he muttered, apparently trying to keep Sansa out of the conversation, as though she was  _impeding_ on some private moment.

She squeezed her eyes shut, silently berating herself for being on the edge of crying. Jon wasn't the only person she had left in the world, but it was hard to convince herself otherwise when his ex-girlfriend was coming back into his life and taking Sansa's place.

"Right," said Ygritte, lifting her hand to fix Jon's hair. "Yeah. Of course. I'll see you later, then?"

Jon took her wrist and brought it back down.

"I'll, uh ... I'll give you a call," he said, giving her a small smile.

Sansa shut off the faucet, violently shaking her hands off instead of drying them with a towel. She was so on edge she could hit something. Or someone, rather. She stood motionless by the counter while Ygritte let herself out, saying goodbye to Jon from the door and giving Sansa a smile, which Sansa failed horribly at returning. Moments later, they were alone, the silence somehow more pressing with just the two of them. It was like Ygritte sucked all the life out of the apartment with her.

Jon cleared his throat and reached for his crutches to limp toward Sansa.

"Thanks for saving me from that," he said.

Sansa flicked her eyes to his, not knowing what he was trying to get from such a joke. She felt a little stupid because her feelings of betrayal were entirely unfounded - it wasn't like he was _actually_ allowing Ygritte to take Sansa's place - but it didn't lessen her irritation.

"I feel like I should apologize instead," she mumbled, snippy, and walked around the counter to her bag for her homework. "Didn't mean to cut your visit short."

Jon took a moment to answer. "Is something the matter?"

When she tried to snap at him in the negative, she bit her tongue and hissed in pain.

"Ah - tamn it," she muttered.

Jon chuckled, and Sansa narrowed her eyes at him, sitting at the island.

There was a knock at the door.

"Again?" she snapped, though she hadn't meant to.

Jon stilled and looked at her, but Sansa turned away, her face flaming.

Her outburst was for nothing, though. It was only a food delivery.

"Since you won't let me cook anything," he said, holding up the bag from Freshii, her favourite, "I figured I could at least save you the effort and order in."

His smiled softened what could potentially be an argumentative statement. But Sansa didn't think Jon was the type to start an argument anyway. She also didn't think he was the type to enjoy a restaurant like Freshii.

"Well ... thanks," she said, retrieving her homework and going to the living room when Jon took a seat next to her at the island.

When she sank into the couch, she saw him watching her from her periphery.

"Will you come eat with me?" he asked, his voice polite, but unmistakably tense.

She opened her textbook in her lap.

"I have to do my homework right now."

Jon swallowed. "I got everything without cilantro. Since you hate it."

That stopped Sansa, hands halting a moment in flipping to the right page. She didn't realize he knew that about her. When it clicked in her head that he probably didn't have any opinion of Freshii, only ordered from there to coax her into eating since he was apparently aware of her food preferences, Sansa nearly looked at him. She stopped last minute, though, going back to flipping through her textbook. Maybe she'd eat later. Usually the thought of food just made her nauseous and tightened her stomach. But ... maybe later.

"I ate earlier," she lied.

"Sansa."

She blinked, startled by the sharpness in his tone, and turned her head to meet his eyes.

"I'm not hungry," she insisted.

"Do you think I can't tell you're not eating?" he asked, quickly veering her toward the defensive. "You're going to end up in the hospital."

"I'm fine, Jon," she snapped.

He lurched to his feet, catching himself on the island when his broken leg caused him to stumble. As though to catch him, Sansa dropped the book beside her and rose as well, taking a few short steps toward him before being stopped by the intensity in his expression.

"If you think I'm going to stand aside and let you starve yourself to death, you are sorely mistaken."

Her lips parted a moment as she stared at him in shock, and then she clamped her mouth shut and swallowed. She turned away and snatched her school things back from the couch before crossing to her bag where it still sat at the island.

"I'm not  _hungry_ ," she said again, stuffing her books into her bag and jerking up the zippers.

Before she could leave, Jon grabbed her wrist, refusing to release her when she yanked on it.

"Get off, Jon!"

"Eat, or I swear to every God that exists, I will shove this food down your throat myself." He raised an eyebrow in a way that seemed almost threatening. "Sit down ... and eat."

She wanted to be angry, to wrench her arm away and storm out of the apartment like planned, but surprising both herself and Jon, she started to cry instead.

Jon released her at once, watching as she pulled her wrist back to her side and rolled it in a circle. His shoulders slumped in defeat and he sat back down with a shaky exhale.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

She crossed her arms, shifting her weight.

"That's not why I'm crying."

Jon looked up again. "Why are you crying?"

 _Because I miss everyone, and you're the only one left, and I hate that Ygritte's here all the time and I hate that she's doing physio on you since that's supposed to be_ our _thing and I_ hate _it_ _, and I'm so scared of losing you to her._

She had to say it. She even  _wanted_ to say it, wanted him to be aware, but she was so afraid of how he'd react that she couldn't force out the words. Why was it so hard to tell him she needed him?

When it became apparent she wasn't going to answer, Jon came around the chair separating them and tentatively opened his arms. Instantly, Sansa folded herself into them with her arms around his waist, her entire body coursing with an anxiety she didn't know how to rid on her own. She held him tightly, helping support his weight, and cried into his shoulder. Jon stroked her back, sighing into her hair.

" _Please,"_ he begged quietly. "Please eat."

Sansa nodded, but tightened her hold. She would; she'd eat. She just wanted to stay like this a little bit longer.

* * *

It wasn't the most comfortable meal she'd ever had, crying over her Freshii takeout while Jon sat morosely beside her, one arm slung over the back of her chair as though to prevent her escaping. But her stomach seemed happy about getting nutrition. The nausea was illusory, disappearing as soon as she'd taken a few bites of the bowl he'd gotten for her. She hadn't been eating _nothing_ over the last several weeks, and it wasn't like she was trying to starve herself, but eating had become the most unappealing thing she could think of. It was rare she had an appetite.

She could only eat half of it before her stomach was busting, making loud, obnoxious rumbling sounds. When she set down the plastic fork and clicked the lid back on, Jon froze, looking at her. Suddenly shy, Sansa lightly cleared her throat.

"I'm full," she said quietly, pushing it away and rising to get water.

He nodded. "I suppose you would be."

Sansa drank from her glass on the other side of the island, watching Jon over the rim of her glass. He was pushing the food around, face dim. Sansa swallowed the water and set the glass in the sink, wringing her hands and clearing her throat.

"I've got to do my homework," she said, feeling incredibly awkward.

Jon stilled, but said nothing, so Sansa walked back to her backpack and grabbed the straps.

"Sansa, wait," he said before she could go, drawing her eyes to him. "Talk to me a minute."

She stared at her hands instead of him.

"What?" she asked, meek.

Jon sighed. "Is school overwhelming you? Is that why you're so on edge?"

She dropped her head lower, shaking it.

Jon went on. "You've got to tell me what's going on. I need to know. Please."

She so easily could have refused, but Olenna's words stuck in her head, and she wanted to be open with Jon.

"I don't want people around all the time," she said, though by 'people' she meant Ygritte. No one else came to Jon's house nearly everyday. "I know it's your house, but you told me I could move in, so--"

"I don't want people around all the time, either," he interrupted, voice soft. "I already told them to be mindful of the fact that this isn't just my apartment anymore. They won't come around unexpected from now on."

Sansa deflated, shoulders curling in. She suddenly felt rather stupid for being afraid in the first place.

"Th-thank you."

Jon nodded once, but he still seemed tense. Sansa dropped her chin, swallowing.

"Is there anything you need from me, then?" she asked.

She heard him try to muffle a sigh.

"I want you to stop trying to take responsibility for everything," he said, angling his body toward her. "Let me help."

Sansa prickled, holding back a rude retort. What could he help with? What could he do with a broken body?

"You're recovering," she muttered, grabbing his leftovers to put away when it was apparent he was finished with them.

"I know what I am," he said, watching her walk around the island, and then leaned forward on crossed arms. "But you're the one who's supposed to be under mycare. Dealing with the responsibilities of everything that's happened, that's for me to take care of. You just go to school, get good grades, and think about university. I'll figure out everything else."

Sansa snapped the lid on his food and turned to put it in the fridge. She understood where he was coming from, she just didn't think it was sensible. Once he was recovered, sure. But what kind of sister would she be if she made him take care of her when he wasn't exactly in good condition?

At her silence, Jon sighed heavily. When she turned to face him again, she saw him leaning back and rubbing his eyebrow.

"I know I'm more or less housebound for the next few months. I know I can't properly take care of you for a while, and I'm sorry for that. But I don't want you to think you're some kind of maid or live-in nurse. We're family. You're my priority, you come first. Just ... know that. Please."

Sansa sighed, tension lifting, and nodded. She did know that, at least.

She meant to leave it at that and do her homework, walking again to her bag, but she paused with her hands on her backpack as Jon collected his crutches.

"Why was Ygritte doing physiotherapy on you?" she asked.

Jon glanced at her and then quickly away, steadying himself against the counter.

"I asked her to," he said, not meeting her eyes.

Sansa's face fell.

"Oh. You don't want me to anymore?"

Jon took a deep breath and sighed it out before answering.

"I'm ... more comfortable with Ygritte doing it."

Sansa's exhale was shaky. "I make you uncomfortable?"

She couldn't believe the level of disappointment she felt. She'd been rejected before, but never by her family. Not even by Jon. But wasn't this what she was so worried about? Wasn't she almost expecting it?

Jon shook his head at once, finally looking at her.

"Sweetheart, no," he said, hobbling closer to pull her into a hug, one hand around her waist and the other in her hair. "That's not what I meant."

Sansa was mollified. He'd never called her 'sweetheart' before. Tentatively, she returned the embrace, and Jon let out a small sigh.

"I don't want to be a burden to you," he said. "You have a lot going on. I don't want to add to your troubles. That's all."

She relaxed. He wasn't trying to get rid of her. Ygritte wasn't a replacement.

"I _want_ to take care of you," she mumbled into his shirt, and then, emboldened by his statement, and still feeling a little afraid of losing his attention and affection, added, "I don't want Ygritte to do it."

Jon stilled for long enough that she wondered whether she'd said the wrong thing, but then he pulled back and gave her a conspiratorial grin.

"Do you want to know a secret?"

She very much did. "I guess."

"She doesn't do it as good as you."

It was impossible to hold Jon's gaze at that. She dropped her head and pressed her lips together, trying and failing to keep the dopey smile off her face. He was probably just saying it to appease her, but it made her feel better anyway. Jon ran one hand down her hair. He was smiling now, too.

* * *

After school a few days later, Sansa and Jon picked up their family's ashes. They were all in identical wooden urns, each with name tags to know who was who. She'd expected Rickon's urn to be much lighter than the rest, but it was almost the same weight as Robb's. It was surreal, all of this. She could hold the remainder of her mother in her arms, and she weighed no more than a newborn baby. It didn't even seem real, the whole situation. Sansa thought she might as well be holding a jar of dirt.

She didn't say anything on the drive home, and neither did Jon, their family sitting side by side in the back seat. It should have been creepy maybe ... morbid certainly. But for the first time in a long time, Sansa felt a considerable easing of anxiety. Her family was in those little boxes. They were right there in the same space as her ... even though they weren't alive. She felt better with them close.

There wasn't any real space to put the urns in his small apartment, so for the time being, they set them in a line by the window. Jon was oddly panicked about stacking them.

Throughout the rest of the day, Sansa noticed she and Jon both gravitated toward the urns, almost without meaning to. Neither of them said anything about it, and she wondered if he felt better or worse with them there. She felt better, more at peace ... more at home, maybe. But Jon's face was indecipherable. Something about it put her on edge. He didn't look right. Something was definitely off, more so than usual, but when she'd asked about it, he'd assured her he was fine. Uneasy, she'd frowned at the obvious lie and gone back to her math homework, back against the wall, legs stretched in front of her, and family all in a line at her right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look After You by The Fray plays in the distance.


End file.
